


A Quiet Evening In

by starrysummernights



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, BDSM, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Cock Warming, College student Greg Lestrade, Dom Mycroft Holmes, Dom/sub, Domestic, Falling In Love, Kneeling, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Prostate Milking, Sub Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 11:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19766914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: Struggling uni student Greg Lestrade was trying and failing to keep a decent place to live and support himself. Until one evening when he met an older man at the club he was working at: Mycroft Holmes.Now, Greg is Mycroft’s live-in submissive and Mycroft keeps him up, pays for his college, and in exchange Greg cleans up around the flat, cooks...and is there waiting for Mycroft when he gets home.





	A Quiet Evening In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serinah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/gifts).



> This is a gift to the lovely Serinah, who writes great bdsm/cock cage fics and who encouraged me to write my own ;) Even if this may not be your cup of smut.
> 
> This is trash. I've literally just warned you about it. Read at your own risk.

Cooking while naked should be considered an extreme sport.

Greg smiles at his own joke, wiping away the bit of red sauce which had plopped out of the simmering pan and onto the bare skin of his stomach, a slight but surprising sting, gone almost as soon as it happened. It didn’t even hurt; was more startling than anything.

He’d thought Mycroft was insane when he first requested that Greg cook all of their meals in the nude. Greg had agreed with the man, who at that point had only recently become his dom, that it looked great in the movies and porn…but he didn’t think cooking naked would translate well to real life.

Greg turns down the temperature of the hob, not wanting to burn his sauce but also hoping to avoid any more unexpected plops, smiling when he thinks of how he’d protested at first, arguing stridently for proper safety, not wanting his cock or balls to get burned by spattering grease or injured in some other imaginary freakish kitchen mishap.

He should’ve known, even then, never to doubt Mycroft Holmes.

Greg’s lips curve in another smile, this one a bit more self-deprecating. He never had to worry. Even without the covering of an apron, Mycroft has made sure that Greg’s cock is always kept nicely _protected_.

Greg pads to the cabinet, taking down plates to set the table and an expensive serving dish for the pasta. It’s just spaghetti and veg and garlic bread for dinner, so he could probably use something less flashy- but Greg made the spaghetti from scratch, using real flour and eggs, with the clever pasta maker he doesn’t think Mycroft even knows how to operate, along with fresh tomatoes and herbs from the farmer’s market for the pasta sauce.

He’s proud of himself and wants to show off the fruits of his labor.

He wants to impress Mycroft.

It’s taken a while for Greg to admit that to himself. It’s taken even longer for him to be comfortable enough to acknowledge that he enjoys being _owned,_ being nothing more than a plaything for a rich and powerful guy like Mycroft Holmes. It’s a definite kink.

It’s also fucking _hot as hell._

Things like this don’t happen outside of cheesy romance novels or even cheesier pornos…but here Greg is: walking around Mycroft’s expensive flat, totally starkers, wearing an expensive but soft leather collar, cooking Mycroft’s meals, and having Mycroft pay for Greg’s classes at uni and any other bill he has. Greg's entire wardrobe is new, everything from his shirts to his socks and pants, purchased by Mycroft at stores so posh Greg doesn't think he would've been allowed in if it weren't for Mycroft escorting him. Greg’s sleeping on 1,000 thread-count sheets in a bed that cost more than the house he grew up in...and in exchange he's available 24/7 (minus the time he needs for uni and homework) for all of Mycroft’s sexual needs.

It’s like something straight out of a bad porno Greg would’ve watched as a teen...and then spent the next few months frantically jerking off to and fantasizing about. 

Greg's never been happier.

And Mycroft’s not bad to look at either. He's tall and slim and wears suits that are so expensively tailored it makes Greg want to drool. He’s older than Greg, but he keeps fit and is obsessive about nutrition. They work out together at Mycroft's private gym and when they first got together, Mycroft sent Greg to a special culinary school on the weekends to learn how to cook the healthy meals he requires. Before that, Greg hadn't known how to boil an egg. And it's nice, being able to cook proper meals and feel like a fancy chef from the telly. Greg isn't complaining. He knows what he cooks is better than what most of the other uni students are subsisting on- artery clogging takeaways and cheap pastas.

Oh, and of course it helps that Mycroft is a _fantastic_ lover. Not that Greg gets to really enjoy that most of the time, not in the conventional way, he adds with another self-deprecating smirk, but it's one of Mycroft's rules and it isn't terrible. Greg's still having some of the best sex in his entire life. So he can't complain.

Much.

Greg's just setting everything on the table in the dining room and thinking of maybe trying to do something clever with the napkins (not swans, but maybe really cool knots?) when he hears the rattle of the front door and the soft sound of Mycroft entering the flat...closing and locking the door behind him...toeing off his shoes...putting his umbrella in the rack...hanging up his coat in the foyer closet..

Greg listens to the well-known sounds with burgeoning arousal. His response to Mycroft’s arrival home is almost Pavlovian, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, and he sinks to his knees on the dining room floor, the plush red carpet tickling his bare knees, and waits for Mycroft to come and find him.

His heart races when he hears approaching footsteps, growing louder. Greg licks his lips, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food-

And then there he is.

Greg’s heart leaps at the sight of Mycroft Holmes in the doorway, still in his three-piece suit with his tie knotted smartly at his neck. He’s tired after a long day at work but his eyes light up when they see Greg waiting for him. When their eyes meet, Greg gives Mycroft a crooked smile.

“Welcome home, sir.”

“Good evening, Gregory.” Mycroft crosses the room and runs his fingers through Greg’s hair in what is unmistakably a pet, reminiscent of how one would caress their dog on first coming home. It makes Greg feel like he’s being rewarded for being a good dog, doing what he’s supposed to for his master. He supposes that’s not entirely wrong.

“This is a welcome change.” Mycroft tips Greg’s face up so they can look at each other, Greg staring up the length of Mycroft’s body and not failing to notice the slight bulge at the front of Mycroft’s trousers. He feels a burst of pride. He loves getting a reaction from the older man- and he’s not even really done anything yet.

“Yes, sir. I finished my paper this afternoon in the library, and I submitted it before I left campus. I’m a free man again.”

“Not exactly.” Mycroft contradicts wryly, and Greg’s mouth goes dry.

“No, sir.” He hopes Mycroft will fuck his mouth before dinner. It’s been weeks since Greg’s been able to kneel of an evening for Mycroft, his assignments at uni taking up too much of his time. Not that Mycroft objects, or even makes Greg feel bad for taking the time he needs for his studies- even when that time detracts from Greg’s service to Mycroft. Mycroft’s a good dom. He encourages Greg to do well in school. He’s paying for it, after all.

But Greg has missed their usual routine and he’s eager to get back to it.

Mycroft, though, steps back and offers Greg his hand, helping him up from the floor and eyeing Greg’s naked body while he rises. His gaze misses nothing. “Is someone a bit keyed up this evening?” Mycroft asks, as if he doesn’t know, and brushes his fingers over Greg’s nipples which are already pebbled on his chest.

Greg gasps, the sensation going straight through him with a _zing_. Feeling foolishly self-destructive, riding high on the anticipation of an entire evening with Mycroft, Greg grins and runs his own fingers down Mycroft’s stomach to press against his half-hard cock. “I dunno, sir. Are they?”

Mycroft’s eyes darken. “Cheeky tart.”

He doesn’t sound angry, but Greg knows he’ll get punished for his impudence later. He’s counting on it.

Mycroft abandons Greg's nipples and lowers his fingers to tug at the metal cock cage locked around Greg’s cock. Greg gasps, not having expected Mycroft to touch him there. Mycroft doesn’t ignore Greg’s cock, but he usually makes him wait, builds the tension, stretching it on and on until finally calling attention to Greg’s cock, all wrapped up in steel, redundant even while it flexes and strains to get hard.

But it seems Greg's not the only one who has missed their routine.

Greg groans, sagging against Mycroft, when a finger teases at one of the narrow slits where a tiny sliver of Greg's cock presses through. Greg can feel how slick Mycroft’s finger gets, just from that touch, and he rocks his hips, breath catching when his cock starts to hurt as it fights the implacable constraint. After being Mycroft's live-in submissive for so long, the ache of his erection being stifled is very familiar to Greg. He tries to ignore it, relaxing, hoping that it goes away. There's no other recourse available for him. Mycroft has insisted on his wearing the cage since the first day they met and never removes it except periodically, and then strictly for cleaning purposes.

It's a power play, a reminder to Greg about what his role is, of what is expected of him and what isn't permitted. They’ve been doing this long enough that Greg has got the message and he no longer has any aspirations of grandeur. So he relaxes as best he can, eyes slipping closed and more precome spurts out onto Mycroft’s finger, allowing it to glide along the exposed sliver of flesh faster and faster. It reminds Greg of the way he used to touch his girlfriends, rubbing at their clits, feeling them get wetter before fucking them. He blushes at the unintentional comparison which is closer to the truth than he wants to admit. Mycroft kisses him, tongue flicking against his and tangling together before the older man pulls back.

“I don’t think that _I’m_ the one who is keyed up, dear.”

It’s a struggle for Greg to reorient himself to the conversation. His caged cock is throbbing and he has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. When he does, his voice comes out slow, sounding drugged. “No, sir…” Mycroft touches his balls, fondling them, rolling the swollen sacs in his fingers, and Greg whines. It’s been a while since Mycroft has milked him and Greg would be lying if he said he wasn’t pent up. His head falls forward to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. “But that’s the way you want me.”

The whisper was meant to be seductive, but Greg’s voice wobbles too much for it to sound anything less than needy. Greg thinks it gets his point across all the same.

“Of course it is. Otherwise, why would I keep you in this?” Mycroft squeezes the cage but Greg can’t feel the pressure, only the barest suggestion of warmth. 

“Sadistic dom?” Greg hazards a guess and is rewarded when Mycroft laughs.

“I’m already that. I don’t need to use a chastity cage to be sadistic.” Mycroft says and Greg silently agrees. “But no. Tell me. What is this really for?”

"Because..." Oh god. Greg takes a deep breath. “Because…I'm yours. To control. Every part of me.” The words are hard to get out. They're demeaning. And very true. Greg knows he's blushing. He bites his lip, unable to meet Mycroft's eyes. He sinks beneath the waves of humiliation and arousal, knowing Mycroft will rescue him before he drowns. 

“Good boy." Mycroft kisses him again, rewarding Greg for giving the right answer, and Greg goes pliant against Mycroft, shaky with the knowledge that he's pleasing the dom, doing what he's supposed to. He's not surprised when Mycroft gently steers him around, bending him over the dining room table where Greg's meal is still laid out and waiting for them. Mycroft's fingers probe between Greg's arsecheeks, gripping at the little blue plug Greg wears whenever he's in the flat, and tugging it free in a long, smooth pull. Greg lets his eyes glaze over, knowing what is about to happen. He rests his cheek against the cool mahogany of the table, and shifts, spreading his legs wider to give Mycroft more room.

Mycroft wastes no time. He fucks Greg hard and fast, making the dishes rattle loudly on the table. Greg holds on for dear life, panting through his open mouth with each of Mycroft's rough thrusts. He's missed this, having Mycroft like this, being used and taken, and he makes to push back against Mycroft to take more- but Mycroft huffs out a warning, holding Greg's hips tightly, and Greg relaxes, letting Mycroft do what he wants.

Each thrust sends Mycroft's cock skidding along Greg's prostate, scattering sparks through his body, but his cock is soft and doesn't even try to get hard except for a few feeble pulses. It bounces beneath him, the heavy cage roughly tugging at him as it moves, just this side of uncomfortable. It yanks at his cock and balls in mild parody of a handjob, but it's too harsh to be pleasant. They’ve been doing this long enough that Greg is used to it by now though. He can feel wet strands of precome dangling from the tip of the cage, hitting his leg as the fluid jars and drips.

Mycroft doesn't try to get Greg off. He never does. That's not the point of their encounters. But Greg is a young man in his early twenties. It's been weeks since they've been together, and months since Greg's had a decent orgasm. He can feel his climax pooling, gathering at the base of his spine in tight ratchets of pleasure. He grasps at the orgasm, needing it more than he can stand.

"Mycroft-!" Greg wants to ask permission but he can't get the words out. His throat is tight, arousal bearing him down until all he can do is moan and arch his back, taking the punishing thrusts with gasps of relief. His body flashes hot and cold, goosebumps breaking out on his skin, and he grunts, bearing down, pushing aside the desire to be hard and instead focusing on how good Mycroft's cock feels, sliding into him over and over, stretching him, the thundering of his pulse, the hopeful throbs of his testicles. He imagines how good it will feel to come. He concentrates on how much he wants that, how much he wants to come...

"Yes, darling...Come with me, Gregory-" Mycroft's command is sweet relief to Greg's ears, made all the better because Mycroft hardly ever gives Greg permission to come. Greg gasps his thanks. He clenches on Mycroft's cock, screwing up his face with the effort. It’s different, coming like this. Everything is constrained. Greg wants to reach and jerk himself off and he knows how good it would feel and how easy it would be to come that way. But he cant. It's pointless to touch himself because he can’t get hard, his cock is cringing against the steel cage that hurts and pinches, giving his pleasure a painful edge it otherwise wouldn’t have. His testicles can’t draw up as much, forced to stay lowered by the heavy steel ring. It isn't easy and Greg has to _work_ for it. But he wants it. Greg is frantic. He writhes, trying to make himself come before Mycroft finishes because he knows if Mycroft comes first, that's it. He won't get another chance. He grits his teeth, straining, trying to make himself come-

"M-Myc-!" Greg cries out when his testicles convulse and then his cock is pushing out thick dribbles of semen which fall to the carpet in loud spatters. He's coming. Sort of. It's a far cry from how an orgasm is supposed to feel, a faint echo and only the slightest impression of pleasure. It's fleeting and brief and Greg groans. It feels like he's pissing instead of coming. There's no tingling, no rush of relief, and when it's over Greg can only shudder, bereft...even though in the back of his mind he'd known what to expect. Mycroft doesn’t let him come any other way.

Mycroft surges behind him, burying himself one final time before coming, moaning through gritted teeth, burying his face between Greg's shoulder blades as he pulses, riding out his orgasm in tiny swivels of his hips. Greg relaxes, trembling, his legs shaking and not wanting to support him anymore. Which is fine. As soon as Mycroft pulls out, Greg goes to his knees and starts cleaning up his mess, swiping his tongue over the carpet and licking away the evidence of his own ejaculation so there won't be any stains. When he's done, Mycroft pulls him closer so Greg can rest his head on Mycroft's knee, letting the sweat cool on his forehead and giving his heart time to calm.

Greg wets his lips and it takes him a few tries before he can finally say, "Thank you for letting me come, sir."

Mycroft cards through Greg's hair, petting him, and it's soothing despite the need still pooled in Greg's body, unsatisfied. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

Greg turns his head, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's knee, his shin, any part of him that his lips can reach without much effort. Mycroft laughs, fond, and rubs Greg's cheek. It's nice, a quiet moment in the storm and chaos of their regular lives, and Greg relishes the contact. Mycroft's come is leaking out of his arse and that will have to be dealt with. Greg still hasn't came and he knows that won't be dealt with. But here, in this moment with his dom and the man Greg is afraid he's rather falling in love with, Greg is happy and content and closes his eyes, forgetting to think about the future...except for what Mycroft will say about his dinner and that maybe he will get fucked one more time before they go to bed.


End file.
